


they were standpartners (oh my god they were standpartners)

by rapidoxidization



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Modern AU, Music, No Angst, UNO, Violins, like the card game, seriously angst free, there's no plot really it's just a series of vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21931546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapidoxidization/pseuds/rapidoxidization
Summary: Before Enjolras left with his parents, he found Grantaire and thanked him for the book. “Sincerely,” he said, “if I were to compare this with any gift I have received in the past, this is the one I treasure the most.”--One year, Grantaire's youth orchestra holds a Secret Santa. Grantaire draws the name of his standpartner. A connection ensues.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 67





	they were standpartners (oh my god they were standpartners)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BookDragon24601](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookDragon24601/gifts).



**i.**

When Grantaire was thirteen, youth orchestra organized a Secret Santa, and Grantaire drew Enjolras’ name. Enjolras was his standpartner, and he remembered one conversation they had about constellations. He immediately thought of the book he owned on constellation myths. It was his favourite book, but he didn’t have enough money for any of his other ideas, so reluctantly he wrapped and gifted it on the last rehearsal day of the year. 

Before Enjolras left with his parents, he found Grantaire and thanked him for the book. “Sincerely,” he said, “if I were to compare this with any gift I have received in the past, this is the one I treasure the most.” For thirteen years old, Enjolras was awfully serious, and he had an odd way of speaking. But even then his presence was familiar, comforting, even. Grantaire nodded. Enjolras moved to leave, but then hesitated and asked him why he was always among the last to leave. 

Grantaire told him he was expected to bus home and the bus was scheduled to arrive once every hour. 

Enjolras waved for him to follow and explained the situation to his mother. Grantaire saw the way her eyes widened, and he felt his cheeks burn. But he got a drive home that night, and before he left Enjolras’ mother told him if he ever needed a ride home again that he was always welcome. Before he left, Enjolras invited him over for Christmas. 

So that was how he found himself at Enjolras’ house The boy was obviously rich—the house was huge—but Grantaire, somehow, didn’t feel intimidated. Enjolras’ mother welcomed him, and his father walked him through his collection of model trains, and Grantaire made polite conversation with them as Enjolras’ other friends arrived. Combeferre, a soft-spoken boy in a sweater vest was the first one after him, followed by Courfeyrac, who beamed and joked and chastised Enjolras for not helping his mother with the gingerbread she was making. A while after, when the gingerbread was fresh out of the oven, a boy named Lesgle arrived with another boy named Marius Pontmercy. Lesgle apologised for being late, citing getting caught in traffic. Enjolras introduced Grantaire to all of them. 

The readiness with which they invited him into conversation caught Grantaire off-guard, but it warmed his chest. They sat in the basement with chip bowls and sparkling cider, and though at first they all interacted in one large group it soon split off into a few separate conversations. Grantaire found a familiar soul in Lesgle, and they joked for some time. Marius had gone to speak with Courfeyrac, and Combeferre had challenged Enjolras to a game of chess. Throughout his and Lesgle’s conversation, Grantaire kept noticing his eyes went back to Enjolras. 

When Combeferre had checkmated Enjolras, the boy laughed loudly and bade him good game. They put away the chess set and afterward Enjolras turned to Grantaire and said, “Play some carols with me?” 

  
  


**ii.**

After that Christmas, Enjolras and Grantaire were fast friends, inseparable at rehearsal and spending much time together outside of that. Enjolras learned that Grantaire loved to sketch; well, really, he loved to paint, but paints were expensive and pencils could be used for school as well as art. He was good, too, Enjolras decided when he’d caught a glimpse of a piece of lined paper he used as a bookmark. Which was why, although the orchestra kids didn’t hold a Secret Santa that year, Enjolras brought him a set of good paints and a few canvases on the last rehearsal of the year. 

His mother drove Grantaire home, and he helped him carry the items to his room. He noticed the run-down appearance of the interior, but decided he would say nothing unless Grantaire commented on it first. He didn’t. In fact, he seemed rather insistent that Enjolras should get home quickly. “You’re tired, it’s been a long day, I should be getting off to bed, I’ll see you next year…”

“You’re not coming to my house for Christmas?” 

“You didn’t invite me.” 

Enjolras was silent for a moment, thinking he’d asked already. Finally, he said, “You’re always welcome. You know that.” 

That was how Grantaire ended up at Enjolras’ Christmas party for the second year in a row. Enjolras watched his friend, curled up in the corner of one of the couches, staring at his phone. Enjolras sighed. Everyone else he knew from school; everyone else knew everyone else. Well, true they also knew Grantaire, but there was a difference between seeing someone every day for ten months and seeing someone once or twice a year. 

“Hey, R, do you want to play Uno with us?” Enjolras called. Grantaire looked up from his phone, though he didn’t answer. 

Courfeyrac was the first to break the silence. “C’mon, everyone knows you need at least six players for it to be a fun game.” 

“Yeah, c’mon R.” 

“C’mere, R.” 

Slowly, Grantaire slid his phone into his pocket and made his way toward the rest of them. Lesgle and Feuilly made room for him in the circle. Enjolras dealt him in. 

  
  


**iii.**

“Friends, I propose a toast.” 

Grantaire had arrived early that year to help Enjolras string golden lights around the basement. There were candles, too. When Enjolras’ mother had come downstairs to take some wine from the cabinet she’d nearly shrieked, citing fire and electrical and tripping hazards. With a gentle laugh Enjolras had reassured her that they would be fine, they were fifteen, they knew how to watch their step. 

One of them had convinced Enjolras to steal a bottle of champagne from his parents’ collection, and so they now gathered, tipsy and lighthearted, on the cool hardwood floor. Only Enjolras was on his feet, for he was the one toasting, and Grantaire leaned back on one hand, champagne glass in the other as he looked up at his friend. This glow made anyone ethereal, but the way it caught like sunlight in his hair made him seem divine. 

“To the strength in our friendship. To the strength in each of you. To the strength that is, that has been, and that will be. You have found it every day since you drew your first breath, and I have faith that you all will find it until you draw your last.”

These words hit them all with a profound gravity. Grantaire didn’t know what brought them on, he didn’t know where they came from, only that for some reason they had been necessary—Enjolras’ words spoke what was necessary. 

“To strength,” Enjolras repeated. Grantaire was the first to lift his glass. 

“To strength.” 

**iv.**

Jean Prouvaire was new to their friend group that year. Enjolras met him in his advanced English class and invited him for Christmas because he mentioned how his parents would be out of town on a business trip for the entire break. Although he’s polite he seems rather intimidated by everyone—shoulders tense, and wide-eyed like a deer in headlights. He retreated to a corner of the couch when Enjolras brought out the Uno deck, and Enjolras let him, knowing from past visits that the boy needed space. Grantaire ducked out after a couple rounds, citing the need to grab more food. He came back downstairs with a second helping of mashed potatoes and carrots roasted in garlic butter. As he ate, he struck up a conversation with Prouvaire, and seemed to be good at getting him to laugh. 

Enjolras didn’t quite realize he’s staring until Combeferre nudged him in between another round. Grantaire, he realised, has opened up so much since that first Christmas they spent together. They all have, Enjolras supposed—stagnancy is impossible after three years. Had it only been three years? Thirteen and sixteen seem ages apart. 

Combeferre nudged him again. He’s staring again, except this time it’s his turn to place a card. How long had they been waiting? Face burning, Enjolras glanced at the card pile. It was red, and he had the corresponding +2 card. 

“Uno,” he said.

  
  


**v.**

“Is something the matter?” 

“Why?” 

“Well. You’re the last one here. Normally you don’t stay this late.” Enjolras must’ve realized how his words sounded—inhospitable—because he added quickly, “Which is fine. I always enjoy your company. But it is abnormal.” 

Grantaire stared into the fireplace for a long while. He’d made the decision that he would tell Enjolras what had been on his mind for two years _tonight_ . He’d told himself that there was no way he would go home without saying it, even though he knew Enjolras didn’t return his feelings. Because if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was _false hope_ , and he had to prove to himself once and for all that what he wished for was an impossibility. So, although every one of his brain cells was telling him to just _go home_ , he stayed sitting in front of the fireplace. 

“You don’t have to tell me. I just—”

“Iloveyou.” 

“What?” 

As Grantaire took a deep breath, tears stung his eyes. He couldn’t look Enjolras in the eye. “I love you.” 

Enjolras was silent. _There_ , Grantaire thought, he’d gone and ruined their friendship. He moved to stand, and was about to wish Enjolras good night. Enjolras caught him by the arm and Grantaire had no choice but to sit back down. He didn’t meet Grantaire’s eye when he spoke. 

“Well. If that’s the case, I think I feel the same way.”

He could scarce find the words to speak. “You do?” 

Enjolras nodded, though immediately after turned away to cover a yawn. “If. If that’s all, I’d hate to be such a poor host but I really am tired and. Well. Maybe we could get a coffee tomorrow? Or see a movie, or…” 

Grantaire gave a crooked smile. “Coffee’s good. I know a place.” 

  
  


**vi.**

There’s something nostalgic to the last Christmas before they all graduate. It’s cold, but they’re all in the mood to do something childish so they put on their coats and mittens and walk in search of harmless shenanigans. 

It’s practically a declaration of war when Bahorel threw a snowball that hits Pontmercy squarely in the back. Pontmercy jumped and cursed loudly and spun on his heel. Bahorel is quick, but not quick enough for Courfeyrac, whose counterassault meets its target: Bahorel’s shoulder. Prouvaire stepped in to back up Bahorel, and from there the rest of the alliances are drawn. Combeferre followed Courfeyrac; Grantaire followed Prouvaire, and is followed by Joly and Lesgle. When the time came for Enjolras to join in, he hesitated until something cold hit him on the back of the head. When he whirled around, Grantaire blew a kiss in his direction before disappearing behind a tree on what Enjolras has now dubbed Enemy Territory. 

“Oh you wanna go?” The challenge was half-shout, half-laughter. 

“You don’t stand a chance, love,” was the answer. 

Which is exactly why he called Combeferre and Courfeyrac for backup. 

  
  


**vii.**

When Enjolras noticed his friends getting restless, he suggested that they go to the city centre and enjoy the festivities. He lived close enough for them to walk, so they put on their coats and boots and headed out. 

He and Grantaire trailed after the rest. Grantaire joked that they need to make sure no one wanders off too far. Which is why when they lost Combeferre and Prouvaire, there was an uproar. When they find them gaping at the window display of some bookshop, Courfeyrac hooked an arm through both of theirs for fear that his friends might truly disappear.

Feuilly stopped them to watch an automaton that sung a tracklist of old folk songs. They all crowded around to watch. Their faces—some amused, some full of wonder—warmed his heart. When Grantaire took his hand, Enjolras couldn’t keep a grin from his lips. 

  
  


**viii.**

When Grantaire is offered an opportunity overseas to restore a newly uncovered Michelangelo, Enjolras was elated. When he learned that it meant Grantaire will be gone for Christmas, he tried not to look crestfallen. Grantaire reassured him that he’ll Skype him constantly—when he woke up, before he went to sleep, and of course on Christmas Day. And he held true to his promises, or at least as true as he can, because they were several hours out-of-sync. 

When the last of Enjolras’ friends bade him goodnight, he stuck around in the little apartment for less than thirty minutes. It would be a few hours til Grantaire was awoke, but the lights on that one plaza they visited the year before shone til nearly three in the morning. Their apartment is a little further from the plaza than his childhood home, so Enjolras took a bus. 

He sat in the window of a 24-hour McDonalds with a large hot chocolate and watched people stroll by. He saw the same automaton Feuilly pointed out last year; saw the same bookshop that almost cost them two of their friends. When a chorus of carollers across the street begin a rendition of Silent Night, he remembered the Christmas eight years ago when he and Grantaire played duets on their violins. They still played together sometimes, though between studies and part-time jobs and internships, it was difficult to make the time. 

Enjolras was still in the McDonalds when Grantaire phoned him. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” And after a beat of silence, Grantaire continued, “But strength. ‘You have found it every day since you drew your first breath, and I have faith…’ et cetera.” He trailed off sheepishly.

Enjolras smiled. “You remember that?” 

“Well, yeah. That was when I knew I loved you, you know?” 

  
  


**ix.**

They hosted Christmas again the next year, even though their little apartment is too small to comfortably fit thirteen people for any extended length of time. Enjolras’ parents dropped by for a brief time, bringing the total up to fifteen, which was almost unbearable. When his mother unveiled gingerbread cookies “for your friends”, Enjolras laughed the way he did when he was embarrassed, but gave her thank-you and a kiss on the cheek anyway. His father pulled Grantaire aside for a moment to gift him one of the model trains he taught him about so long ago. Grantaire later denied shedding a tear over this. But he did—Courfeyrac had photo evidence. 

The day passed in laughter and toasts, games of Uno and chess and charades. They eat food, lots of it, and after dinner they settle by the small flatscreen television tuned to a recording of a fireplace to exchange gifts. It was a Secret Santa again that year, and watching the others try to guess who gave them their present was half the fun. 

Grantaire drew Enjolras’ name, and so it was with some nostalgia that he bought him a leather-bound edition of the constellation myth book he gave him so long ago. Enjolras guessed his name immediately, but Grantaire figured he would. 

It’s with some confusion, though, that Grantaire opened his own gift. It was small, fitting into his palm. A ring box. Their friends, chattering before, fell silent. He looked to Enjolras, who looked back at him, a quiet mixture of anticipation and nerves in his eyes. With shaking hands, hearing his heartbeat in his ears, Grantaire opens the box. Inside is a ring. 

He nodded amidst tears. Enjolras eased the box from his hand, placed the ring on his finger. Grantaire threw his arms around his shoulders. 

  
  


**x.**

The warm glow from the Christmas tree washed over Enjolras and Grantaire. They watched some holiday movie or another—one of the ones that everyone had watched at some point, but didn’t know the title of. They were only half listening. Grantaire held Enjolras, one arm around his waist and the other hand combing mindlessly through his hair. Enjolras, for the record, had never felt more relaxed than he did right now, with his head resting on his fiancé’s chest. Every so often he caught his eyes falling shut.

It had been some time since the rest of their friends had left for home. Enjolras could still feel the presence of his friends, as if they were an afterglow. Not everyone had been able to show up this year. Combeferre had just gotten back from some science and technology conference and was still recovering from jetlag. Feuilly had taken a job that kept him out of town for weeks at a time. Joly was visiting his grandmother in the hospital. In his head, Enjolras knew that friendships that survived into adulthood were likely to survive almost anything. But that they each found their lives taking off, that it was each taking them in different ways left him with bittersweetness in his chest. 

Grantaire was still here. And if something like a few years previous happened again, Grantaire would always return. 

“Do you remember the first Christmas I invited you to my house?” 

“What about it?” 

“Nothing. I just. Who would’ve thought? That we would still know each other. That we’d be getting married.” 

Grantaire chuckled and leaned down to press a kiss to Enjolras’ hair. “Yeah. Crazy I put up with you hogging all the space in front of the music stand.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Did.” 

Enjolras tsked, holding back a laugh. “Play some carols with me?” He moved carefully to stand, and went to grab their violins. He held Grantaire’s case out to him and Grantaire, now sitting up, took it with a small smile on his lips. 

“It’s been months,” he protested. Still, he tuned the strings. It had been some time since Enjolras had played, too, but there was something comforting about returning to the instrument one had grown up with. He ran through a few scales, slowly at first. When he hesitantly played the opening bars of Silent Night, Grantaire halted his own scales and looked back at him. They stared in silence for a few moments, broken by Enjolras’ sharp inhale signalling the start of the music.


End file.
